Wednesday morning was dull and misty. We had to feel our way cautiously between Eigg and Rum in the direction of Skye. No view could be obtained either of the Coolins or of the mountains of the mainland. It was indeed tantalising to know that we were in the neighbourhood of some of the grandest scenery in Scotland, and to be unable to see a vestige of it, except occasionally a few outlying rocks, or a mountainous headland swept by the mist. Early in the day we cast anchor in the Sound of Soa, near the entrance to Loch Scavaig.
The ‘Iolanthe’ off Eigg and Rum.
Loch Scavaig.
The object of stopping at that point in the voyage was to visit Loch Coruisk, the wildest and most desolate of Highland lochs, imbedded in the heart of the Coolins. In spite of the mist and the threatening rain, nearly the whole party started in the ‘Iolanthe’ for the head of Loch Scavaig. Scavaig itself is a very grand loch, partaking of the gloom of the mountains that surround it,—a gloom relieved only by the breakers on the rocky coast, and the glint of the wings of sea-birds. The landing, at all times difficult, was rendered more so by the slippery state of the rocks: but it was effected without serious mishap. After a rough walk of half a mile, over boulders and broken rocks, the south end of the dark lake was reached. No one had any reason to regret the toils or the risks of the expedition. Though the mists concealed the mountain tops, they intensified the darkness of the lake. The rain, which had been falling for some time in sport, now began to come down in earnest, and it quickly swelled the thousand streams that covered the hillsides. The silver streaks had become roaring cataracts. The loneliness of the scene was oppressive. The lines in which Scott has described the silent lake, whose name is a synonym for desolation, occurred to many. It is the Bruce that speaks:—
‘Saint Mary! what a scene is here!
I’ve traversed many a mountain-strand,
Abroad, and in my native land,